


Faking It

by Sherlocked_Gallifreyan



Category: Daredevil (TV), daredevil - Fandom
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Gen, It's become a series of one shots now, Undiagnosed Mental Health Issues, heck if i know what i should put here anymore, it's been such a long time, mental health
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2018-12-19 21:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11906643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlocked_Gallifreyan/pseuds/Sherlocked_Gallifreyan
Summary: If you pretend to be confident enough, maybe no one will notice you. Anxiety makes even the most inconsequential things seem terrifying.





	1. Chapter 1

_Matt Murdock. Matthew Murdock. Matt. Matthew. Matt...hew. No no don’t do that. Just go with Matt. It’s shorter._ Matt pressed his hands flat against the desk in front of him. They weren’t shaking.  
  
_You’re faking it_ , a voice hissed. _Faking liar. Just want their attention._ It wasn’t Stick. Matt wished it was. He hated how much that voice sounded like his own. He forced his attention outside his skull. Foggy was chatting with a couple of girls. He’d complained to Matt about not having any luck with the ladies but Matt, even though he hadn’t known Foggy long enough for an evidence-based conclusion, had doubted that.  
  
A burst of giggling from behind caught him off-guard. Stick scolded him for the lapse, the mistake. The giggling stopped, and there was no further conversation that might help him explain the laughter. _They’re laughing at you,_ the voice said, so sure of itself that Matt just accepted the statement. Of course they were laughing at him. Tension knotted itself between his shoulder blades. He felt small and vulnerable, regretting the surge of confidence that encouraged him to not sit in the back corner of the room closest to the door. He couldn’t move now.  
  
Well he could. He could physically move himself and his backpack from his current seat and relocate to the empty seat in the back corner. Wouldn’t take more than what...thirty seconds? And all the while people would be sneaking furtive glances ~~staring openly~~ as he made too much noise moving. He folded his hands in his lap, squeezed his arms close to his sides, and kept his head down.  
  
Rationally he knew no one was laughing at him. No one was even paying much attention to him. They were preoccupied with their conversations and getting themselves organized. If anyone noticed him moving seats, they’d forget quickly. The tension between his shoulder blades and the burning cold thrumming in his veins were incapable of ration. All he knew was that staying where he was lessened the anxiety. Next class he would take that back corner seat. In the switch-up of seats that Matt would later learn was common on the second day of a class, no one would notice him moving; it’d just be normal. Until then, he would stay small. The class was only 50 minutes. He dared move enough to check his watch.  
  
The tone of the room shifted as the professor finally stumbled in fifteen minutes late. There were no introductions, no attention hyperfocused on him. The tension between his shoulder blades lessened. By the end of the class, it had settled into a dull ache. Despite the professor’s poor first impression, the course was engaging. Rationally he knew he would be okay. If he could convince the rest of his brain of that, he knew he’d be fine.

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A/N: I don’t remember what sparked it at this point but I do have a headcanon that Matt suffers from undiagnosed anxiety. He takes it in stride the same way he does getting his ass kicked and just keeps getting back up. If you pretend to be confident enough maybe no one will notice you.


	2. 2

Loneliness curls itself heavily in Matt's chest. It presses against his lungs and crushes his heart and he can't breathe. His alarm clock chirps. In his mind's eye he sees himself freeing his arm from the blankets and shutting the clock off; it tells him the time and he finds the energy to get out of bed. In reality he does nothing. He lays on his side and clutches a pillow to his chest. The sounds of the city are muffled (he remembers learning to swim-sound travels differently in water, Matty). He feels his father's death, Stick's sudden departure, and his fight with Foggy. He thinks he remembers hearing that the brain feels emotional and physical pain the same way, but emotional pain is harder to escape. Bruises, scrapes, and even broken bones can be silenced with meditation.

Loneliness drains every last sensation. The world on fire is dull and muted, completely dark in places. The first time this had happened, he'd panicked. He'd thought his other senses were failing. The dullness faded when he met Foggy in their dorm room. It happened often enough in college that he knew it wasn't his senses failing. It crept in when Foggy's mom called; the two of them would talk for hours, more often laughing and joking. Matt made no effort to listen to the other side of the conversation. 

His twenty-first birthday was the worst. One of Foggy's sisters went into early labor, and he'd caught the first flight back home. He left a note for Matt in nearly-illegible Braille explaining what had happened and Matt was happy for Foggy. Happy for Foggy's family. What he'd thought were Foggy's initial attempts at his message caught Matt's attention. He flipped the paper upside-down and ran his fingers over the clumsy dots. 'Happy birthday buddy! Sorry I can't be there'. The note slipped from Matt's fingers and under his bed. He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. He'd forgotten about his birthday. Stick hadn't cared to celebrate birthdays and he'd had tests the day after his 19th and 20th birthdays that he'd had to study for. He'd laughed and told Foggy to go celebrate for him. 

At this point, he was used to the dullness that sometimes had no cause. He knew he'd have to kick whatever it was by Monday so he could go to class but it felt different this time. Sticky and viscous (molasses in the orphanage kitchen, someone being scolded for carelessness). It twisted through his bones and grated under the surface of his skin. The room was dark and silent now: no tell-tale hum of electricity and light bulbs, no Foggy as he muttered and complained his way through assignments. His father and Stick encouraged him to get out of bed, do his homework, do something. His body wouldn't do what his brain told it to. This was new, and he knew he should be worrying about it but couldn't find the energy. He did pull his glasses off his face and shoved them in the general direction of away. A distant clatter told him he'd pushed them onto the ground. 

Foggy came back five days later to find him in nearly the same position. Matt wasn't the sort of person to nap in the middle of the day, so Foggy assumed he was sick. A reasonable assumption, Foggy decided, as he sniffled and searched for the tissues. Were they out of tissues? Speaking of...

If Matt was sick, why weren't the tissues by him? Foggy couldn't find anything else that suggested Matt might be sick. Matt also wasn't the type of person who skipped showers. Matt's hair looked greasy in the afternoon light from the window. Matt's eyes were also open. A hundred worst-case scenarios flooded Foggy's mind as he hurriedly crossed the room and knelt in front of Matt. "Matt?" he asked softly. "Hey buddy you okay?" Hazel-brown eyes locked briefly with Foggy's before sliding away and closing. 

"...time is it?" Matt mumbled. He shifted and stretched on the mattress. 

"It's Wednesday. Little after 2," he said. "I just got back. Got a little baby niece!" He sounded so proud and Matt wanted to force his face to smile. Foggy studied Matt closely, trying to figure out what was wrong. He knew Matt wasn't a big fan of screaming children but ... he'd honestly expected something more. The corners of Matt's mouth twitched into something approximating a smile. Shit. He knew what it was. Matt would never admit to the anxiety and depression that tangled themselves around his feet. 

"'S great Foggy." Matt had propped himself up on an elbow and was again looking in Foggy's direction like he had some sort of freaky sixth sense. Sitting up took a monumental effort but Matt managed, swinging his legs off the edge of the bed. He put a hand to his hair and his face crinkled in disgust. (Foggy loved the way Matt's expressions took up his entire face.) "I mean it." His voice rasped a bit. 

"I swear to God if you apologize," Foggy half-threatened. Confusion replaced the disgust for a moment. Matt stood, wobbled a bit. When was the last time he'd eaten anything? "Go shower and then we'll eat. Mom sent me back with so much food..." He looked over at the mound of food on his desk. His mom had insisted on sending enough food for Matt, expressing her concerns that he was too skinny. Next to the food was the gift to Matt from the Nelson clan: a tablet with audiobook versions of his textbooks and favorite books. Foggy wasn't sure yet how to tell Matt that he'd been unofficially adopted by mama Nelson, but today was the day he'd break the news. 

Except today is different: Matt knows Foggy won't be coming back. He thinks about how proud Stick would be of him now. He'd pushed his friends and family away. They wouldn't be coming back. 

xxxxxxxx

A/N Well this got really out of hand.


	3. Dysfunction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If only it was always possible to forgive yourself when things go south and all you have the energy to do is hate yourself for letting it get so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta’d and typed on my phone. let me know if you find any mistakes

It isn’t always “can’t get out of bed for days.” Most of the time it’s much more subtle: clothes left where they’re thrown after being taken off; dishes left on the table, counters, and in the sink; fridge and cupboards empty. Little things that all pile up to being too much, so nothing gets done for too long. 

Matt knows the apartment is a mess, knows it’s disgusting. Unwashed dishes line the counters, and he’s pretty sure the only thing left in the fridge is beer. Case files are littered across every available surface, including the floor. Foggy’s charity. Matt tells himself he should be grateful. After all, he does have something to keep himself occupied. Never mind the fact that he’s been too tired lately to do anything, including more than a cursory look at those cases. The world on fire is too dull to be out there anyway. He’s got a shameful collection of new bruises from walking into furniture that hasn’t moved since he moved in. 

The problem with having so few friends is that there’s no one left to turn to once you feel like you’ve made one mistake too many and aren’t sure if they’ve finally turned their backs on you. Maybe that’s all in his head too. He wishes Foggy would stop being disappointed and get angry. He wishes he knew if Foggy felt as disconnected from everyone as he did. He knows Foggy doesn’t. Foggy’s done quite well for himself since Nelson and Murdock fell apart. Karen too. It hurts, knowing that they’ve benefited from the dissolution of the thing that helped keep Matt tied to his friends. He tries not to dwell on how Karen and Foggy found a sort of freedom from the same event that left Matt feeling trapped in his own skin. 

Matt wonders sometimes if he actually wants to make new friends. He hasn’t had much luck with relationships in the past. People either die or he finds some way to disappoint them. Either way, they end up leaving. Frank hasn’t left, but Frank was never a friend to begin with, right? Matt’s not sure anymore. Not sure of anything but the gut-wrenching guilt about the state of his apartment that simultaneously makes him want to thoroughly clean the entire apartment and keeps him pinned to the sofa.  _You’ve let things get too bad, Matt. There’s too much to clean now. You’ll never get it done,_ the voice he wishes didn’t sound like his whispers. So nothing gets done. 

He knows,  _knows,_ that he just has to get up. Get up and start with the dishes. Those are easy, mindless. By the time he’s finished mentally walking himself through that basic task, he’s exhausted. Given the coolness of the apartment now, Matt figures it’s after sunset. How can time go so quick when all he’s done is sit on his ass all day?

Rationally, he knows that if he called Foggy now, Foggy would arrange a convenient time to come over and help Matt clean. He’s done it before. Rationality doesn’t get to win, though. Matt doubts he’d have to energy to call Foggy anyway. Oh well. Shit happens, right? He’ll keep telling himself that until he either gets up or dies.  _If I die here, no one will know. No one stops by anymore. I’ll die and I’ll rot and be —_ He jumps off the sofa, disgusted. As long as he doesn’t think about the monumental task before him, as long as he just focuses on one little manageable bit at a time, Matt knows he can get the apartment clean. He hopes to be done before sunrise but forces himself to acknowledge and accept that that might not happen. He starts by collecting the dishes from the coffee table and bringing them to the sink. Maybe he just gets the dishes done tonight. If so, that’s okay. It’s a start. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i only seem to update this story when things go sideways for me rip


End file.
